As The Twig Is Bent
by TrudiRose
Summary: Why did Gaston grow up to be such a jerk? This is a story about his childhood. COMPLETE!
1. Auguste

_Disclaimer: Gaston belongs to Disney. (Which is really a shame, since it's not like they're ever going to DO anything with him. They should just hand him over to me!)_

_Author's note: I was wondering what kind of childhood would produce someone like Gaston, and found myself writing this to come up with an answer. It was originally meant to be just a tiny one-shot like my Chip story, but it's taken on a life of its own. It's a bit of an experiment, so you'll have to tell me if it works or not. I'm always open to constructive criticism._

_(Oh, and a personal disclaimer here: FYI, I myself am opposed to hunting. The idea of getting pleasure from killing an animal gives me the creeps. But I'm not Gaston. And if I write about him, it has to be from his perspective, not mine. I just wanted to mention that, 'cause I'd really hate for anyone to think I'm promoting hunting.)._

_Okay, enough babbling from me! On with the story._

In a clearing in the woods, a large deer grazed, unaware that it was being watched.

Slowly the hunter raised his gun to his shoulder. It was a long shot – the deer was too far away – but with luck, maybe there was a chance he could bring it down.

But his concentration was interrupted by a whisper from the boy beside him. "Pop, wait. Let _me_ get him."

Auguste smiled indulgently at his son's eagerness. "You're only 11, Gaston. I know you're the best shot of any boy in the village, but that deer is too far away even for me. Don't worry, you've done well this trip," he added, nodding at the bulging bag of rabbits and raccoons. "No other boy your age could have done half as well. I didn't get my first deer till I was 16. You'll get plenty of them when you're older, I'm sure."

Gaston shook his head and said with certainty, "I can do it now, Pop. I know I can."

Auguste looked at the boy, a smaller version of himself with the same jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, chiseled features and cleft chin. He was pleased. In addition to his features, his son had inherited his overwhelming self-confidence. "All right," he said, handing over the rifle. It would be good practice for the boy, if nothing else.

Gaston took the gun, which was nearly as big as he was, and raised it to his shoulder. He peered keenly along the sights, lining up the shot, and pulled the trigger. The blast echoed loudly in the silent forest. The deer dropped to the ground.

Auguste's mouth dropped open. He whooped and hollered and clapped Gaston on the back. "By golly, you did it! Only 11, and already the best darn hunter I've ever seen! Wait till the men hear about it! They'll be green with jealousy. None of their sons could have done that, not by a long shot. You're something special, boy, no two ways about it!"

Gaston grinned, basking in the praise. He idolized his father and wanted to be exactly like him when he grew up.

Auguste quickly and efficiently tied a rope around the deer's antlers, then looped it around its body in a way that would allow him to drag it to the edge of the woods, where he had a cart waiting.

As they headed back through the woods, he cleared his throat. Gaston knew that meant he had something important to say. "You know, Gaston, when I married your mother, I was expecting to have a large family. Every man wants a brace of strapping sons to carry on his name. But it didn't work out that way. Your mother's a fine woman, but for some reason, she wasn't able to give me more than one child." He put his hand on Gaston's shoulder. "But WHAT a child!" He shook his head in admiration. "I tell you, Gaston, you make me prouder than 20 sons ever could."

"Thanks, Pop," said Gaston, swelling with pride. Hearing those words was a better trophy to him than the deer itself. It meant the world to him to know his father was proud of him.

As they approached the house, three hound dogs came rushing out to greet them, baying loudly. Gaston petted them as they swarmed around him. Auguste usually brought the hounds hunting with him – there were no finer dogs for treeing a coon, chasing down a rabbit, or retrieving a fallen duck. But deer hunting was different: it required patience to sit still and silent for long periods of time. One excited yip from a hound would spook the deer and lose the trophy. So he had left them home this time.

Hearing the dogs' outcry, Gaston's mother, Mireille, came out on the porch. At age 29, she was still the most beautiful woman in town, a stunning brunette with luxuriant, shining tresses and mysterious almond eyes. Even in a crowd of young single girls, Mireille was the one who drew men's admiring glances. She smiled warmly at her husband and son. "Welcome home! How did my two big strong men do today?"

"I shot a deer all by himself!" Gaston told her proudly.

Mireille gasped. "Really? Oh, that's _wonderful!"_ She hugged her son. "The mighty hunter!"

"He's a chip off the old block," Auguste said. "Got my hunting skills, that's for sure."

"And your looks, too," Mireille added fondly, brushing Gaston's hair out of his eyes. "So handsome! Just like a little prince. You watch, in another year or two, all the girls will be after him. He's going to break a lot of hearts, this one."

"Aww, cut it out, Mama," Gaston said, reddening. But inwardly, he loved the way his mother doted on him. She thought the sun rose and set on her son.

Mireille laughed. "All right. I'd better get started cooking that venison you brought home. Oh, and I made your favorite, apple pie." She patted his head. "Only the best for my boy."

As they ate, Auguste recounted the story of Gaston's success, while his mother exclaimed in admiration. Gaston smiled, basking in the attention.

After dinner, Auguste rose. "Well, I'm off." He was the owner of the village tavern, and as he often told Gaston, it was the best job in the world. As tavern owner, he was at the center of the village's social life, heard all the town gossip, and was easily the most popular man in town. And of course, he got all his drinks for free. He paid his bartender, Julien, extra to handle most of the humdrum tasks – dealing with brewers, keeping the kegs full, doing the bookkeeping, and mopping up at the end of the night. That left Auguste's days free for hunting. In the evening, all he had to do was show up and be the "figurehead" of the tavern, and occasionally break up a fight or toss out a too-rowdy patron who'd had one too many.

He looked over at Gaston. "Want to come with me?"

"Really?" Gaston was thrilled at the idea. He had occasionally been in the tavern during the day – his father sometimes let him earn pocket money by sweeping up or stocking bottles on shelves. But he had never been inside at night, when the place was actually open. To him it was a mysterious, forbidden place where only grown men gathered.

"Why not?" said Auguste, grinning. "The way I see it, any boy who can bring down a 200-pound deer singlehandedly has earned the right to be treated as a man."

Mireille looked up sharply, dismayed. "But Auguste, he's just a _child!" _she protested. "I don't want him in the tavern with all those drunken, violent ruffians!" She gathered Gaston to her protectively.

Auguste's jovial mood vanished in an instant. He glared at her, his blue eyes steely. "Don't defy me, Mireille," he warned dangerously, his voice icy. Gaston shivered. His father almost never spoke that way to him – after all, Gaston was the golden boy who could do no wrong – but on the very rare occasions that he had, Gaston had quickly learned not to cross him. That tone of voice meant an immediate trip to the woodshed.

Mireille knew that tone too. She faltered. "I-I'm sorry," she said hesitantly. "It's just…he's so _young—"_

Auguste shook his head in disgust. "You coddle the boy too much, Mireille." He gestured at Gaston. "Come on, son."

Gaston looked up at his mother. "I'll be fine, Mama," he assured her.

She smiled at him, but her eyes were anxious. She gave him a quick hug. "Just be careful."

Outside, Auguste shook his head. "A fine woman, your mother, but she forgets her place sometimes."

"I think she was upset," Gaston said worriedly. He didn't like to see his mother unhappy.

Auguste shrugged. "A woman's no different from a dog or a horse, Gaston," he said dismissively. "You can sweet-talk them, give them treats, but if they get out of line, you have to show them who's master right away. Remember that."

"Oh," said Gaston slowly, turning that over in his mind. It was hard for him to think of his loving mother in the same category as a dog or a horse, but if his father said it, it must be true. His father knew everything, after all.

They walked through the village in the twilight. "I remember the first time I ever saw your mother," Auguste said reminiscently. "She had just moved to town. Her first day here, she walked into the marketplace, and she was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever seen. I knew instantly that I had to make her mine. And I did. Every man in town was after her, but I knew I'd be the one to win her." He smiled. "A beauty _and _a wonderful cook – what more could a man ask for in a wife?" He looked at Gaston thoughtfully. "She was right, you know: when it's time for you to get married, you're going to have your pick of girls."

Gaston suspected he might be right. At age 11, he was only just starting to become aware of the possibility that girls might be good for something other than teasing them, putting a frog in their desk or dipping their pigtails in an inkwell. And the girls were becoming aware too. Recently, they had started surreptitiously following him around, finding excuses to talk to him, or giggling and whispering to each other when he passed. He still wasn't at the age of actively socializing with them yet, but he definitely enjoyed the newfound female attention and admiration.

The idea of marriage, however, seemed a million years away. But his father was clearly in the mood to give advice, so Gaston asked, "When I get married, which one should I pick?"

"Well, the prettiest one, of course," said Auguste immediately, as though it were obvious. "You don't want to spend your whole life looking at some ugly wench!" He shuddered. "And besides, a beautiful wife is good for a man's reputation. Just like a big house, or an impressive hunting trophy. If you marry a beautiful woman, it shows people you're successful and important, a man to be respected and envied. Of course, it's nice if she's also a good cook. You want a wife who's going to feed you properly! But that can be learned. I'm sure as soon as you pick a bride, your mother's going to take it upon herself to teach her how to cook all your favorite dishes. She won't let her boy go hungry." He chuckled. "But looks – now, _that's_ a different story. A girl's either born with beauty, or she isn't. And if she isn't, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. So when the time comes, son, just pick the best-looking girl you can find. You can't go wrong that way."

Gaston nodded. It made sense, just like everything his father said.

As they continued walking, everyone they passed waved or greeted Auguste with a smile. Except one man. The village schoolmaster, Monsieur Mauviette, saw the two across the square, and his eyes narrowed in distaste. Adjusting his spectacles, he headed in their direction.

Gaston saw him approaching, and tried to hurry his father along faster, hoping to avoid a confrontation. But Mssr. Mauviette quickened his pace and marched right over to them, looking determined. Gaston swallowed nervously. This could mean trouble. His father might not be so pleased with him once he heard about yesterday's incident.

"I need to have a word with you about your boy," Mssr. Mauviette said without preamble.

Auguste raised his eyebrows in surprise. "About what? Gaston isn't even in your school anymore." The village school only went up to grade 5, the prevailing attitude of the era being that that was more than enough schooling for peasants and farmers.

"A fact for which I am profoundly grateful," Mssr. Mauviette replied frankly. "But I'll have you know that yesterday, that young ruffian of yours punched my son Benoit in the nose. I demand he apologize to my son at once!"

Auguste coughed and covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. He couldn't believe this scrawny little bookworm was actually bothering him with such trivial nonsense. All puffed up as he was with self-righteous indignation, the schoolmaster reminded Auguste of a strutting rooster. "Well, you know how it is, monsieur," Auguste said mildly. "Boys will be boys, eh?"

The schoolmaster looked annoyed. "No, I _don't _know how it is," he said testily. "What I _do _know is that your boy is an uncivilized hooligan, and you'd better put a stop to it at once!"

Auguste glared at him, starting to lose his temper. "Gaston is the finest boy in the village, and don't you forget it!" he snapped. "He's worth a hundred of that pale scrawny whelp you call a son. Maybe if you spent more time teaching your boy how to defend himself, he wouldn't need his old man to come around whining every time he gets into a scuffle."

The schoolmaster drew himself up to his full height, affronted. "I am teaching _my _son to be a scholar and philosopher, and to settle disputes with reason and words, not fists."

"Really? I pity the lad, then," said Auguste sarcastically . "I expect he'll have more than a few bloody noses to look forward to in his future." He put his arm around Gaston's shoulder. "Come on, son." They headed on their way toward the tavern.

Mssr. Mauviette shook his head in disgust. This was the final straw. He had accepted the post as schoolmaster in the tiny village four years ago, to the astonishment of his friends at university, who had all sought plum assignments as tutors to the sons of rich nobles. An idealistic man, Mssr. Mauviette had believed that this would be a fine and worthy pursuit, bringing the glories of education and literature and the power of reason to the deprived masses. But to his chagrin, his efforts were unappreciated. The villagers saw little value in education, and were even suspicious of it. They wanted their children to be able to read a prayer book on Sunday or a signpost when travelling, and to know enough math to correctly count their change when they made a purchase. Anything more than that was unnecessary in their eyes.

Well, he'd had enough. Tomorrow he would give notice, pack his things, and take himself and his son back to Paris, where he could find a post that was worthy of his talents and schoolmates worthy of his boy's companionship. Let these ungrateful savages wallow in their own ignorance. Muttering to himself, he headed for home.

Meanwhile, Auguste looked down at Gaston with amusement. "So tell me, what exactly happened yesterday?"

Emboldened by his father's obvious lack of anger, Gaston told him the story.

The boys had been shooting off their mouths as they often did, bragging about their abilities and trying to one-up each other, talking about who was the strongest, the fastest, the best at fighting or shooting or horseback riding. Of course, the undisputed answer to all those questions was Gaston – no one denied that – but that didn't stop the boys from eagerly vying for second place, jockeying for status within the group.

Benoit had stood sullenly, slightly apart from the other boys. Bookish and studious like his father, he had a brilliant mind, yet no one in the village admired him for it. Instead, they treated him as odd and eccentric. It infuriated him. What was so wonderful about being strong? As his father often reminded him, a gorilla was strong, but you wouldn't want to _be _one. What set man above the beasts was his reason and his intellect – _those _were the traits most worthy of admiration.

But to the village boys, all that mattered was how strong or fast or athletic you were. Skinny, frail and nearsighted, Benoit couldn't compete. He was by far the smartest boy for miles around, yet they looked down on him as a pathetic misfit. Meanwhile, they all idolized Gaston, a thickheaded, musclebound oaf who could barely write his own name. It wasn't fair, Benoit thought angrily.

"Of course, Gaston is the best, but aside from him, no one can beat _me_ at archery," Claude was boasting.

All the sentences seemed to start with that qualifier, Benoit thought – "Gaston is the best, but…" Suddenly, he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Gaston's not the best at _everything," _he said loudly.

All the boys immediately fell silent, turning to stare at him. "What do you mean? Of _course _he is," said LeFou.

Gaston sauntered over to Benoit confidently. "Name one thing I'm not the best at," he challenged, smug in his superiority.

Benoit's eyes gleamed. "You're not the best at _reading," _he declared triumphantly.

Gaston faltered at that, his smile fading. Uncertainty showed in his eyes. He glanced around quickly at the other boys, who were watching with interest to see what he would do. It was true, of course – he _wasn't _a good reader. Aside from Benoit, none of the other boys could read well either. But the other boys weren't Gaston, with a reputation to uphold as being the best at _everything._

Wanting to save face, he laughed derisively. "Reading is stupid," he said dismissively. He spread his hands in mock defeat. "You're right, Benoit: when it comes to sitting around all day with your nose stuck in a book, you are _definitely _the best." The other boys snickered.

It might have ended there, with Gaston conceding, however disdainfully, that Benoit held the undesirable title of champion reader. But Benoit wasn't going to let Gaston's mocking tone rob him of the first taste of triumph he'd had since coming to the town four years ago. Everyone always thought Gaston was so great, he thought resentfully. This was his chance to finally knock him down a peg.

"Books aren't stupid," he said firmly. "You only say that because _you're _too stupid to be able to read them!"

The boys gasped in shock. No one _ever _dared talk to Gaston like that. Gaston stepped forward angrily, his fists clenched. "Take it back."

Benoit smiled. All eyes were on him, and some even held a trace of admiration at his courage, foolhardy though it might be. After years of being ignored, it was a heady feeling. "I won't," he said boldly. "Because it's true." He thrust his book at Gaston. "Go ahead," he taunted. "Let's hear you read a page aloud. I bet you can't do it."

Gaston glared at him. There was no way he would allow himself to be made a fool of by reading out loud. Angrily, he struck the book to the ground. "I'm not going to waste my time reading some dumb book," he snarled.

"Right," said Benoit. "Because you're too stupid, like I said."

That did it. Enraged, Gaston hauled off and punched Benoit in the nose. Blood spurted out. Benoit gasped, his hands flying to his nose. "I'm telling my father on you!" he threatened, his voice tearful.

"Go ahead," scoffed Gaston. Benoit ran off, crying.

The other boys circled around Gaston. "You sure showed him, Gaston!" said LeFou.

Gaston shrugged, but inwardly he was worried. He had let his temper get the better of him, without thinking of the consequences. He wondered uneasily how his father would react to the news that he had beaten up on a weak, puny boy half his size, and bloodied his nose to boot. Surely he would be punished for being a bully.

But now, when he told the story, Auguste just laughed heartily and clapped him on the back. "Got a bit of a temper on you, haven't you?" he chuckled. "You get that from me, I expect. Good for you. Nothing wrong with having a temper; it shows people they can't push you around. I'm glad I have a son who stands up for himself. That little twerp will think twice before insulting _you _again, I'll wager!"

Gaston grinned, relieved to discover that he had done the right thing after all. "He sure will, Pop!" he agreed. Why had he been worried? His father was right – the little pipsqueak had been asking for it. He was _lucky_ that all he'd only gotten was a pop in the nose. Gaston had let him off easy.

Auguste was still chuckling. "And to insult you by saying you can't read! As though that's a bad thing! Well, to a puny little milquetoast like that, I suppose it is!"

Gaston stopped smiling. "Pop?" he asked hesitantly. His father cocked his head, waiting for the question. "Pop…well…he's right. I _can't _read," he admitted. "Well, I mean, I _can, _but just a little. A few words. Not a whole book or anything like that." He looked up at his father, worry in his blue eyes. He knew his father expected him to be the best at everything, and Gaston didn't want to let him down.

Auguste laughed again. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. You think I want some pasty-faced bookworm for a son?" He shuddered at the thought. "Nothing good ever came from reading, Gaston," he said firmly. "You read too much, your head gets filled up with all these complicated ideas, all of 'em telling you something different. Soon you're in such a muddle you don't know _what _to do or which way is up. Then you're good for nothing _but _reading, like that pathetic little wimp, the schoolmaster's son. You think _he's _ever going to be able to bring down a deer like you did today? I bet he'll never bag so much as a squirrel."

Gaston grinned. "No, he won't."

"Darn right, he won't," Auguste said decisively. "Even if he lives to be a hundred, he'll never be able to do any of the things you can do right now, at only 11. All _he's_ good for is sitting around with his nose in a book. But you and me, Gaston – we're men of action. We don't waste time sitting around with books – we're out in the world _doing _things, accomplishing great feats."

"Men of action," Gaston repeated. He liked the sound of that.

"And speaking of men…" Auguste pushed open the door of the tavern and held it open. "You ready to enter a man's world?" he asked, grinning.

Gaston's eyes glowed with anticipation. "You bet, Pop." Together, they entered the tavern.


	2. The Tavern

Father and son entered the dark, smoky interior of the tavern. Julien the bartender was cleaning glasses with a cloth. "Evening, Auguste," he called. Auguste raised his hand in greeting.

Many of the regulars were already inside, sitting on barstools or at small tables with drinks in front of them. Gaston recognized them all from the daily life of the village: there was the baker, the cobbler, the tanner, the miller, the farrier, and other familiar faces. Yet in the dark tavern, lit by the flickering light of the fireplace and the kerosene lamps, the air filled with the murky scent of smoke and sweat and alcohol, the men seemed different, mysterious, less civilized somehow. Away from the proprietary eyes of their wives and the humdrum routine of daily work, free to be as drunk, raucous, lewd or profane as they liked in their masculine lair, they had an air of danger and recklessness about them. The atmosphere was dark and secretive, menacing yet exciting, as though anything could happen. Or so it seemed to a young boy entering the forbidden zone for the first time.

The men called greetings to Auguste. He cleared his throat and announced, "Good evening, men. You all know my boy Gaston here. I'm proud to announce that today, this fine young lad took my rifle and, all by himself, brought down a 200-pound deer with a 16-point rack, from a distance of no closer than 90 yards. Finest shooting I've ever seen, from man or boy."

"Well done!" "Fine boy!" "Takes after his father!" Congratulatory exclamations filled the air.

Auguste held up his hand for quiet and continued. "And to celebrate Gaston's success: tonight, all drinks are on the house!" The men burst into cheers and whistles at the news.

Julien gestured Auguste over, looking concerned. Auguste and Gaston went over to the bar. Julien leaned forward. "Auguste, free drinks all night? We'll lose a fortune!"

Auguste glanced around. The men were still cheering raucously. Satisfied that no one would hear, he murmured to the bartender, "Just water down all the drinks a little for the next few weeks. They won't notice, and it'll all even out by the end of the month."

Julien nodded with a grin. "You got it, boss."

Seeing Gaston listening, Auguste winked at him. "It's all about the image. Right?"

Gaston thought about it. It didn't seem quite honest, somehow. Yet, as his father had pointed out, the men wouldn't notice the difference in the drinks. This way, Auguste wouldn't lose any money. And the effect was impressive: men were toasting Auguste and loudly proclaiming him the most generous man in town. Gaston had to admit he couldn't see a downside to it. His father really was smart.

The grandiose gesture reminded Gaston of last year's hunting season. Auguste had had his most successful season ever, bagging an astounding eight deer in only one week – a village record. But as proud as he was of his trophies, his success left him with a problem: what to do with all that extra meat? Two deer was more than enough to feed his tiny family of three for the entire winter. It seemed wasteful to let it spoil. Gaston remembered his parents sitting up late that night, pondering the problem.

The next day, August had called all the villagers together at the town hall to make an announcement. "When I set out this year to go hunting to feed my family," he began, "I had the good fortune to bag two deer right away. I could have turned back then. Yet, something compelled me to continue. I found myself thinking of the poor orphaned children and destitute families who are not blessed with a good hunter to provide for them. What would they do during the long, cold winter ahead? I vowed then that I would use my God-given talent to try to help those less fortunate than myself." He paused a moment, seemingly overcome with emotion, before continuing. "Providence was with me; as you know, I brought home an astounding eight deer in one week, an amazing feat unmatched in the history of the village. Therefore, I am happy to announce that I am donating two of the deer to the village orphanage, to feed the poor hungry waifs. And with the remaining four deer, I will throw a feast for the entire village! I think we can all use some merriment to liven up these dark winter months. And anyone who is hungry can enjoy their fill without feeling as though they are taking charity."

The woman who ran the orphanage was so moved by the gift, she threw her arms around Auguste, thanking him over and over. The feast was a tremendous success, and toast after toast was drunk to Auguste's extraordinary generosity and benevolent nature. His already-sterling reputation had been enhanced considerably.

Best of all, from Auguste's viewpoint, was that it was all at no cost to himself. "It's all about the image," he cheerfully explained to Gaston afterward. "A man's reputation is the most important possession he has. When people look at you, what do you want them to see?" He held up a finger, counting off his points. "Well, first of all, you want respect. People have to know that you stand up for yourself, that they can't take advantage of you or push you around. Next, you want them to admire you and look up to you. So, never be shy about your accomplishments. Be proud of what you've done, and let the world know! Respect and admiration - that's the key. But after that, if they _also_ like you and think you're a great guy…well, son, then you really have it made."

His father certainly seemed to know what he was talking about, Gaston reflected now. He was by far the most respected, successful, popular and well-liked man in town.

"Three cheers for Auguste!" the baker cried.

August held up his hand in protest. "It's Gaston you should be thanking," he pointed out, putting his hands on his son's shoulders. "Tonight's drinks are in honor of his extraordinary hunting success."

"Yes! Three cheers for Gaston!" the men shouted in agreement, raising their glasses to the boy. "Hip-hip-hooray!"

It was an indescribable feeling. Gaston's parents praised him all the time, of course, but this – this was something new. This was a whole roomful of adults, grown men, cheering for _him,_ celebrating his accomplishment. It was the greatest feeling in the world. Gaston felt like a king.

Auguste pointed at the trophy wall. "I'm going to have your trophy mounted and put it right over there, in the middle, where everyone can see it whenever they come in," he told Gaston.

The barmaid, Desiree, sashayed over, the enticing movement of her curvaceous figure drawing appreciative whistles from the men. She had long blonde hair and big blue eyes, and her low-cut white peasant blouse revealed her ample bosom to a degree that was just this side of being indecent. "So this is your son, Auguste? He's cute."

She had stopped right in front of Gaston, which gave him a close-up view of her female assets. The young boy almost stopped breathing. He had never seen so much of a woman's exposed flesh before.

She saw him staring, and laughed. "Look at him! His eyes are as big as saucers." She chucked him under the chin playfully. "Like what you see?"

Gaston blushed, not knowing what to say. "Uh…yes, mademoiselle."

The men laughed raucously at that, Auguste joining in. "That's my boy! He knows what he likes!" He took a swig of ale. "Finest boy I've ever seen. Brought down a deer today, clean as any man alive could do it."

"So I've heard," said Desiree. "Very impressive! I think such a big accomplishment deserves a reward, don't you?" She winked. "What do you say, Auguste? Want me to take him upstairs and make a real man out of him?" Although she was ostensibly a barmaid, it was an open secret that Desiree earned considerable extra income by – as Auguste put it – "keeping the customers happy." He didn't mind; it gave the men yet another reason to patronize his establishment, and she always gave him a kickback.

Gaston panicked at her words. Ogling her figure was one thing, but what she was suggesting – he wasn't ready for that. He'd never even _kissed _a girl. But if his father told him to go with her, he'd have to do it. He couldn't chicken out, not in front of all his father's friends.

But to his relief, his father just chuckled and said, "No, I think he's had enough excitement for one day. But in another couple of years, I'll bring him to you, let you show him the ropes. Maybe for his 13th birthday." He elbowed Gaston in the ribs. "How'd that be for a present, eh, boy?" The men laughed again.

"Sure, Pop," said Gaston, glad that it wasn't going to be tonight. "That'd be great."

"Give the lad a drink, Desiree," Auguste said. "Let him wet his whistle."

"You got it." She set a tankard of ale in front of Gaston, then went off to serve other drinks and flirt with the customers.

"Drink up, lad," said Auguste, downing the rest of his tankard in one gulp.

Gaston took a sip. It tasted strange, not altogether pleasant, and burned a little going down. But following his father's lead, he quickly gulped down the rest of the tankard. Another appeared before him, and he drank it down too. He began to feel a buoyant sense of well-being. Everything seemed pleasantly blurred at the edges, like a dream.

The men were talking and joking as they drank, and as the evening wore on, the jokes became lewder and the language cruder. Gaston knew his mother would not approve of her child being exposed to such vulgar talk, let alone drinking alcohol. Some of the raunchier jokes made Gaston blush. But he tried to act worldly and casual, as though he was entirely used to such topics. He felt very grown-up and manly, being here among the men and listening to the rough language they would never have used in polite company. He wondered if the village wives knew how their husbands talked about women when they weren't around. He tried to remember some of the bawdy jokes to tell his friends later – they would be impressed, he knew.

The sound of angry voices caught his attention. A poker game in one corner of the room had become heated. "You cheated!" shouted Henri, the farrier. "I won't pay you one sou!"

"You filthy liar!" Jean, the carpenter, yelled back. "You just can't stand to lose!"

Henri lunged forward and tackled him. The two drunken gamblers rolled on the floor, punching each other. The other men circled around them, shouting encouragement.

Gaston jumped up and looked at his father, expecting him to break up the fight, but he just stood watching, seeming almost amused. "Pop?" he asked. "Shouldn't you stop them?"

Auguste shrugged. "Nah, they're just letting off steam," he said unconcernedly. "This isn't a church social, Gaston; it's what guys do."

Gaston backed away from the mayhem and watched from a safe distance. Out of range of the violence, it was kind of exciting. He wondered which man would win. Jean seemed to have the upper hand, he thought.

Auguste let them go at it for several minutes, then judged it was time to get involved, before anything in his place got broken.

"All right, boys, that's enough," he said, wading in and pushing them apart. "Henri, how much did you lose tonight?"

"50 francs," Henri said sullenly.

"All right. Hardly your life's savings, is it?" Auguste pointed out. "And if I recall, you won 70 francs last week. So you're still ahead. Pay up." Henri glumly dug in his pockets for the money.

"And Jean," Auguste continued, "you'd better make sure to play an honest game from now on, because I've got my eye on you." Jean nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"All right. Now, I think it's about time both of you ought to be getting home." It was an order, not a suggestion. Henri looked like he was about to protest, then shut his mouth. Auguste's word was law in the tavern, and everyone knew it. The two men shuffled out.

Gaston looked at his father with admiration. He was impressed at the way Auguste had such control of the situation, how everyone always listened to him and did just what he said. It must be great to have that much power.

But suddenly, Gaston realized that _he _wasn't feeling so great. He had started out pleasantly tipsy, but now he was feeling dizzy and nauseous. His head was pounding, and the candlelight seemed too bright, and the room was spinning.

"Hey, Auguste," said the cobbler with amusement, "I think your boy's about to fall out of his chair."

Auguste looked over at his son. Feeling sick, his coordination off-kilter, Gaston was indeed starting to slide right off the chair. Auguste caught him before he hit the floor. The men laughed, Auguste included. "No shame in that – I'd wager all of us have ended up under the table a time or two!" he said jovially, adding, "Some of us more often than others, eh, Jacques?"

Jacques, the miller, grinned, unoffended by the ribbing. "I'll drink to that!" he joked, lifting his tankard.

Gaston looked up at his father queasily. "Pop?" he whispered. "I don't feel so good."

Auguste smiled. "I guess you've had enough for one day." He slung Gaston over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and rose. "I'd better get the boy home. Julien, you lock up at the end of the night."

"Sure thing, boss," Julien replied.

They left, amid farewells and jokes from the men. The cool night air felt good after the overheated tavern. If he hadn't felt so queasy, Gaston would have enjoyed the rare feeling of being carried in his father's strong arms. Auguste often wrestled and roughhoused with him, teaching him how to fight, but he hadn't carried him gently like this since he was a baby.

Under the circumstances, however…"Pop, put me down!" Gaston suddenly whispered urgently. Auguste set him down. Gaston ran behind a bush and threw up several times, his sides heaving. His throat felt raw, and his stomach cramped as though his insides were coming out.

Auguste waited for him to finish. "All done?" he asked, wiping Gaston's mouth with his handkerchief.

"I-I think so," Gaston said. He looked up at his father. "Is that supposed to happen?"

"Your first time? Absolutely," Auguste assured him. "You're still just a kid. When you get bigger, you'll be able to hold your liquor better. Of course, a man can't drink like that _every _night. You do that, and you'll become the town drunk! Don't want that. Myself, I usually only have three or four drinks over the evening. You don't want to be a drunken fool; you want to stay sharp and keep your wits about you." He picked Gaston up again. "But once in awhile, to celebrate something as momentous as your first deer…why then, it'd be a shame _not _to get rip-roaring drunk! That's how I see it."

"Will I feel better in the morning?" Gaston asked.

Auguste laughed. "No, I expect you'll feel _worse _in the morning, I'm afraid. Right now you're just drunk; tomorrow you'll be hung over, and that's when the real fun begins! But by tomorrow night, you'll be fine. It's all part of being a man."

Mireille was waiting up worriedly when they came in the door. She gasped when she saw Gaston lolling on his father's shoulder, limp as a rag and looking green. "Mon Dieu! What happened to him?" she said, rushing over to him. Gaston raised his head weakly to look at her, his eyes bleary.

Auguste carried Gaston into his room and set him on the bed. "Just had a bit too much to drink is all," he said, unconcerned. "He'll be fine."

Mireille bit her lip, but didn't say anything. She went over to the bed and sat next to her son, putting her hand on his forehead. He felt hot. "How do you feel, honey?" she asked gently.

"I threw up," he said, his speech slurred.

Auguste put the chamber pot next to the bed. "If you feel like you need to throw up again, just use that," he said. He took Mireille's hand. "Come on, Mireille. Let's go to bed."

"What? I can't leave him like this!" she protested.

"He's just drunk, woman - not _dying," _said Auguste impatiently. "He'll have a hangover tomorrow, and be fine by tomorrow night. It's nothing every man hasn't been through a hundred times. Why must you make such a big deal of everything?" He pulled her up next to him, putting his arms around her. "Come on. The boy will be fine. Right now _I _need you." He grinned lasciviously, his eyes roaming over her body.

Mireille looked back at the bed worriedly. "I don't think—"

"Gaston," Auguste interrupted brusquely. "You'll be all right here, won't you, son? You're not an infant. You don't need your mother hovering over you, do you?"

Feeling as dizzy and sick as he did, Gaston wanted nothing more than his mother hovering over him right now. But he forced himself to smile. "No, Pop, I'm fine." He knew his father despised any hint of weakness.

"There, you see? He's fine." Auguste was already kissing her neck and pawing at her breasts. "Come on to bed now."

Mireille sighed. She turned back to the bed, leaned over Gaston and kissed his forehead. "Try to get some rest, sweetheart. Call me if you need me."

"I will," said Gaston. But he knew he wouldn't. Not with his father around.


	3. Mireille

In the middle of the night, Mireille crept out of bed, careful not to wake her husband, and went back to sit at her son's bedside. She saw that he had vomited again, and went to clean out the chamberpot before returning to sit on the edge of the bed. He was asleep, but restless, his hair damp with sweat.

She sighed. Auguste always brushed off any of her concerns about Gaston by saying this was the way men were, and that as a woman, she didn't understand. But she didn't see how purposely getting her child drunk enough to make him violently ill was necessary to "make a man" out of him.

She remembered the first time she had seen Auguste. He had walked into her father's saddlery shop, the handsomest man she'd ever seen in her life. "Well, hello there, pretty lady," he'd said charmingly, leaning on the counter. "Who might you be?"

She had giggled shyly, looking downward modestly. "I'm Mireille. We just moved here. Who are you?"

He put two fingers under her chin, lifting her gaze to look into his brilliant blue eyes. "Your future husband," he said with a cocky grin. His confident, take-charge attitude had seemed so manly to her - he had swept her off her feet. A few weeks later, he had asked her father formally for her hand in marriage, and to her it had seemed so romantic, a dream come true. She was only 17. He was 25.

He ruled the household with an iron hand, expecting complete compliance from her, just as he did from his dogs and horses. But, naïve and passive by nature, she accepted it, and tried her best to please him. She had led a sheltered life, raised to be a wife and mother, gentle and submissive, always respectful and obedient to her parents,. She had been taught that a man's home was his castle, that he made the decisions, and a woman's job was to cook and clean and take care of the house and children.

He had raised his hand to her only once, early in their marriage. She had disagreed with him about something – she couldn't even remember what it was now. But they had quarreled, and she had been so caught up in expressing her viewpoint that she hadn't seen the danger signs: how his eyes flashed with anger, his brows drew together, his jaw clenched. Without warning, he had slapped her hard in mid-sentence. She was stunned into silence, her hand flying to her reddening cheek, her eyes filling with tears.

"Do not _ever _defy me, Mireille," he had said, his voice cold with fury, and stormed out.

Upset, she had gone to see her mother and tearfully told her the story. Her mother had been sympathetic, but not shocked. "Well, dear, you know how men are," she had said. "They don't like to be contradicted. Let him make the decisions, and you just be a good wife and support him, like you're supposed to."

"But…he was so _angry," _said Mireille. "It was…scary." She shivered. She was a sensitive girl, unused to so much as a harsh word. As a child, she would burst into tears if her parents even scolded her. She hated for anyone to be angry with her.

"Now, now," her mother said comfortingly, patting her hand. "All couples have spats from time to time. You go home and apologize to him, and I'm sure he'll forgive you."

So, convinced the incident was entirely her fault, she had returned home. She saw her husband sitting by the hearth. He turned to glare at her in silence, his expression stony. It took all the courage she had to approach him. Trembling, she knelt in front of him, her eyes downcast, and said meekly, "Auguste, I-I'm so sorry. Please don't be angry with me."

She felt him touch her shoulder, and timidly raised her head to meet his eyes. To her immense relief, he was smiling broadly, like the sun coming out after a storm. "That's a good girl," he said benevolently, his good humor restored. "That's what I like to hear."

Sobbing, she threw herself into his arms, needing comfort and reassurance after her fright. He patted her on the back, saying, "There, there, it's all right. I forgive you. Just don't let it happen again."

"I won't," she said fervently.

She was grateful that he was not the kind of man who constantly got drunk, flew into rages and beat his wife. She knew such men existed. As long as everything was to his liking, Auguste was cheerful and good-natured, seeing himself as the benevolent ruler of his little kingdom. So she did everything she could to keep him happy and their life harmonious.

She knew that the other village women envied her, and that she was lucky. After all, her husband was the most handsome man in town, respected and successful, and a good provider. They had a large house and food on the table. He often patted her approvingly and told her that she was a "fine woman," or a "good little wife." He was very pleased with his choice, and showed her off proudly to others, as though she were a prize horse. He often bought her new dresses and jewelry, wanting his wife to be the envy of all. And his lust for her body had not declined over the years – he still found her as desirable as ever, and ravished her hungrily in bed.

If she ever longed wistfully for tenderness and closeness, for the feeling of being cherished, or simply to hear the words "I love you," she chided herself for her foolishness. Such thoughts were just silly, girlish notions. She knew she had no right to complain.

Besides, Auguste had given her one thing for which she would always be grateful: Gaston. From the moment he was born, he seemed to her the most beautiful, perfect child imaginable. He was the joy of her life, and she loved him wholeheartedly and unreservedly.

People might say she spoiled him, but she didn't care. She loved to see him smile, and was happy to give him anything he wanted. In her eyes, he deserved only the best.

She knew that in time, he was grow up into a man's world, and away from her. It was already starting, in fact – lately he spent more and more time hunting with his father, whom he idolized, or out with his friends. But for the moment he was still a child, and still needed her, and she treasured every moment.

She was glad that Auguste was an involved father, spending a lot of time with Gaston and teaching him things. But she worried sometimes. Auguste was so focused on being tough and beating out everyone else. She wished he would also stress to their son the importance of kindness and compassion.

But the one time she had approached him about it, Auguste had laughed. "You want him to be gentle and kind and sweet? He's not a little _girl, _Mireille. Your problem is that you never had a daughter to coddle. Gaston's a boy, and a great one. He's doing just fine. I'm not going to have him becoming weak and wishy-washy."

Now she looked at Gaston sleeping, and sighed. She knew Auguste felt he was raising their son the right way, including tonight's trip to the tavern. But how could he intentionally do something that would make their child so sick? And then shrug it off, as though it were unimportant? She didn't understand it. But then, as Auguste said, she was merely a woman.

The next morning, Auguste was up bright and early, as usual. It was the first of the month, which was always a busy time for him. First, he and Julien were going to meet with the local brewers and place their monthly orders. Then, he was going into town to pick up the monthly supplies – feed for the horses, ammunition for his guns, and other household necessities.

He shook Gaston awake. "Come on, son, time to rise and shine!"

Gaston groaned and rubbed his eyes. Auguste chuckled. "How are you feeling today, son?"

Gaston took stock of himself. He didn't feel like he was going to throw up anymore – he felt as though he had emptied himself of everything he'd ever eaten in his life. But his head was pounding, and his stomach hurt, and his throat was raw.

But he knew his father didn't want to hear that. He was impatient with minor complaints, believing a man should be tough enough to take any punishment without whining about it. "I'm okay, Pop," he said.

"Good," said Auguste. "Now get up. It's time for you to do your chores." Gaston nodded and dragged himself out of bed. Standing up too quickly, he felt a wave of vertigo, and grabbed a post for support.

Auguste gave Mireille a perfunctory kiss. "Well, I'm off to town. I'll be back for dinner."

"All right," Mireille said. "Have a good day."

After he left, Mireille looked concernedly at her son. He really looked awful, swaying as though he would fall over any moment. Her heart went out to him. She went over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Go back to bed, sweetheart. You need to rest."

"No, Pop said I gotta do my chores," he said weakly.

"I'll do them for you," she promised. "Don't worry about it."

Gratefully he climbed back into bed with a sigh.

"Do you want some breakfast? I could make you those eggs you like." She smiled fondly, adding, "I never knew a boy who could eat so many eggs!"

Gaston shuddered. The very thought of food made his stomach rebel. "No, I couldn't eat anything now."

"All right. Is there anything I can get you?" Mireille asked.

"Well, I'm a little thirsty," he told her.

She brought him a cup of water. He drank it down quickly. "Thanks, Mama."

She smiled. "That's what I'm here for. To take care of you." Tenderly she brushed his hair off his forehead. Her cool hand felt good against his overheated skin.

He smiled back at her. "When I grow up, I'm gonna miss having you to take care of me."

She felt a pang of loss at the thought. She would miss it more than he would, she knew. But she smiled reassuringly. "Well, when you grow up, you'll have a wife to take care of you," she reminded him. "Some wonderful girl who loves you more than anything and will devote her life to making you happy." She touched his cheek fondly. "She's going to be one lucky girl, whoever she is. I hope she'll appreciate how lucky she is to have you."

He grinned - that mischievous, devilish grin that always melted her heart and, within a few years, would cause girls to swoon instantly. "'Cause I'm the handsomest boy there is, right, Mama?"

"Always, Gaston," she agreed, smiling. She kissed his forehead. "You rest now."

o o o o o o

Auguste returned that evening in a good mood. He had accomplished everything he'd set out to do, gotten good bargains on everything by haggling, and picked up a few extras, including a fine new set of tack for his horse and a new bow and quiver of arrows for Gaston. He entered a house that was sparkling clean and full of the good smell of cooking.

"Ah, now this is what a man likes to come home to," he said jovially, coming in the door.

Mireille came over and kissed him. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yep. And here, I got something for you." He handed her a silver bracelet.

"Thank you," she said, putting it on. She didn't care much about material things, but she was always grateful for any token of affection.

After dinner, Auguste settled into his overstuffed armchair. "So, Gaston, did you have a good time last night?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, Pop!" said Gaston eagerly. He had recovered by this point. Now that he was feeling so much better, he looked back at his night at the tavern as a grand adventure.

"Good," said Auguste. "Maybe in a few months I'll take you again. And in a few years, you'll start coming with me every night. The place is going to be yours one day; you'll need to learn how to run it."

A wave of relief washed over Mireille. She had feared that the previous evening's debauchery was the beginning of a new nightly routine. But thankfully, Auguste apparently saw it as merely a one-time treat, a reward for Gaston's hunting success. She had been given a reprieve: her son would stay her child at least a little while longer, before being dragged into the world of men and away from her.

Feeling grateful to her husband, she moved behind Auguste's chair and began massaging his shoulders. "Mmm," Auguste said, leaning his head back, "that feels good." He reached back and patted her hand affectionately. "Best little wife in the world." He kicked off his boots. "Rub my feet, will you, dear? You know I like that."

"Of course," she said. She knelt down in front of him and massaged his feet. He leaned back, his hands behind his head, and smiled. "Ah, this is the life," he said grandly. "What more could a man want?"

Gaston, playing on the floor with the dogs, was feeling content too. Tomorrow he would brag to his friends about bagging the deer, and going to the tavern. They would be so jealous. And tonight, he was here at home with his parents, and everyone was happy. Things were just as they should be.


	4. LeFou

LeFou made his way through the village towards Gaston's house. He hadn't seen Gaston in several days, and wondered where he'd been. Probably off on some exciting adventure. LeFou looked forward to hearing about it. And maybe Gaston would tell him about it first, before anyone else got to hear the story.

Up until recently, LeFou had been almost as much of an outcast as Benoit. But unlike the bookish boy, LeFou wanted desperately to fit in, and always tried to tag along, despite his lack of success. Sometimes the boys bullied him, or made fun of him for being so short and weak and clumsy; more often they told him to get lost, or simply ignored him.

But it didn't faze him. It was no worse than what he faced at home, after all. His mother had died giving birth to him. His father, heartbroken and bitter, had turned to drink, and made no effort to conceal his belief that LeFou was responsible for his mother's death. "She lost her life just so you could have yours," his father would say bitterly, and it was clear that he didn't think it was a fair trade. When he was drunk, which was often, he would go on and on about it: "A beautiful, vibrant, loving wife lost forever, and in exchange, a clumsy, useless, scrawny runt of a boy who'll never amount to anything," he would say scathingly.

That was when he was drunk. The rest of the time, he simply ignored his son as though he didn't exist. LeFou wasn't sure which was worse. He had often tried to appease his father, to be as helpful and obedient as possible, but his father scorned his efforts, always finding fault and telling him he couldn't do anything right. He wanted nothing to do with his son. The only thing LeFou could do for him was to stay out of his sight.

So LeFou continued trying to tag along with the rest of the boys. It was better than going home. He would sit on the sidelines and watch them playing, wrestling or climbing trees or racing or throwing a ball, and invariably, his gaze would turn to Gaston. Gaston, who was everything he wasn't: tall, strong, graceful, confident, able to do anything effortlessly. Gaston was simply the best, and everyone admired him.

LeFou wished he could be like Gaston. If he were, then surely his father would be glad to have him. Gaston's father certainly was glad, bragging proudly about his son at every opportunity. And with good reason. Gaston was going to grow up and accomplish great things, maybe even be a hero. Not like LeFou, who would never do anything good at all.

One day, LeFou was cutting across the tree-dotted meadow on his way home when he saw Gaston practicing archery. It was unusual to see Gaston alone; he was usually surrounded by friends and admirers. He had a bag of targets he had made himself – small round wooden circles only a few inches in diameter that he had painted red. He had nailed them loosely to various trees around the meadow, and was now practicing shooting arrows at them.

LeFou sat down on a rock to watch. Gaston took aim at the farthest tree, so far away that the target appeared as a mere red dot. He pulled back on the arrow, then released it. The arrow sailed gracefully through the air and unerringly hit the target, as though drawn there by an invisible string.

"Wow!" LeFou burst out in admiration. "That was amazing!"

Gaston turned to look at him, and LeFou was afraid he'd be angry at the interruption. LeFou had never actually dared to speak directly to Gaston before. But Gaston just grinned and said, "I know."

Emboldened, LeFou went on. "Everything you _do_ is amazing! Like that time everyone was seeing how strong they were, and you picked up that huge boulder – that was incredible. I bet you're even stronger than a grown man, and you're just a _kid_! And the other day, when the guys were playing ball, and Claude threw that totally wild throw from so far away. I thought it was going to fall in the lake. But you just ran so _fast, _even faster than the ball was flying! And you grabbed it right out of the air before it hit the water. I've never seen anything like it!"

LeFou suddenly broke off. To his astonishment, while he was talking, Gaston had stopped shooting arrows, walked over and sat down on the rock next to him, and now was listening intently. To him. Gaston had stopped what he was doing to listen to _him. _LeFou couldn't believe it. He was used to being totally ignored, or told to go away.

"Go on," Gaston said, his blue eyes attentively on LeFou. "What else?"

LeFou went on, describing with admiration all the amazing feats of Gaston's that he had witnessed. And Gaston, his hero, sat there listening, all his attention focused on him.

Then Gaston asked, "So what do you do – just watch me all the time?"

LeFou reddened. He must sound so pathetic, like such a loser. "Well…kind of," he admitted. "I mean, it's not like there's that much exciting to look at in this town, you know? And everything you do is so incredible – it's just fun to see what you'll do next. Like that time Pierre bet you that you couldn't shoot the highest apple off that tall tree. But you did it, like it was so easy."

"Oh, that was nothing," said Gaston. "The apple was just sitting there. Once when I was hunting with my father, I shot a rabbit from much farther away than that, and it was _running,_ really fast like a streak of white light. But I got it."

"Wow," said LeFou, impressed. "What else did you do?"

Gaston loved nothing better than talking about himself. He sat there all afternoon, bragging to LeFou about all his accomplishments, enjoying having an appreciative audience. LeFou was in heaven. His hero was actually sitting and talking to him, like they were actual _friends._ It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life.

Then Gaston looked up at the setting sun. "Well, I'd better be getting home," he said. "It's almost dinnertime."

"Oh," said LeFou, disappointed. He didn't want the afternoon to end. For a little while, basking in Gaston's presence had made him feel special. Now Gaston would go back to ignoring him again.

Gaston was taking down all his targets and putting them in his bag. "Can I help?" LeFou asked. Immediately he cursed himself for his stupidity. What possible help could the great Gaston need from a worthless nobody like LeFou?

But to his surprise, Gaston said "Sure," and tossed the bag to him. LeFou held it while Gaston climbed up and removed the targets, then tossed them into the bag.

When all the targets were put away, LeFou was about to give the bag back. But Gaston said, "You can carry it home for me if you want."

LeFou was thrilled. He followed Gaston home, holding the bag, bursting with pride that he was actually able to do something for his idol.

When they reached Gaston's home, Gaston took the bag back. "Thanks," he said. "See you tomorrow."

LeFou's jaw dropped open. "Sure, see you tomorrow," he managed to say.

Since then, LeFou had followed Gaston around like a shadow, doing everything he could for him. It made him feel special and worthwhile for the first time in his life. He knew that he himself would never do anything amazing. But Gaston did amazing things every day, and helping him made LeFou feel as though he had a share, however small, in Gaston's success. In his mind, he wasn't a nobody anymore – he was Gaston's helper, maybe even friend, and what could be better than that?

Best of all, LeFou was now part of the group. Not a word had been spoken about his changed status; no announcement had been made. The next day, he and Gaston had simply arrived together at the lake where the boys were waiting, LeFou carrying Gaston's fishing tackle. As soon as the boys saw that Gaston had accepted him, they accepted him too. In an instant, he was one of the group, as though he had always belonged. No one ever bullied or made fun of him again. In fact, they actually seemed to _respect _him now; being Gaston's chosen sidekick conferred upon him instant status. For that alone, LeFou would always be grateful to Gaston.

Now, as he approached the house, he saw Gaston's mother sweeping the front porch. "Good morning," she said with a smile on seeing him. "Gaston is in the back with his horse."

"Thank you," LeFou replied, smiling back. Gaston's mother was always kind to him, which was yet another reason he liked spending time at Gaston's house. He headed to the back of the house.

Gaston had taken his colt, Fantộme, out of his stall and was grooming him with a curry brush. The colt was his pride and joy, a present from his father on his last birthday. He had been riding his father's horses all his life, and had helped to break in several. When he turned 11, his father had given him the 2-year-old colt to be his own horse, along with the responsibility of breaking him in all by himself. Gaston was proud of the honor and determined to do a good job.

Fantộme was well-bred, but rambunctious and high-strung, and still skittish around people, although he'd gotten used to Gaston by this point. He was a black colt with white socks and a white star on his forehead.

LeFou looked admiringly at the young horse. "He really is a beauty."

"He sure is," said Gaston proudly.

"Can I help?" LeFou asked.

Gaston considered. He was possessive of his horse, and slightly wary of letting anyone else take care of him, believing no one else would do as good a job as he did. But on the other hand, part of training a horse was getting it used to people. Ultimately, if Gaston did his job well, the horse would be so well-trained and obedient that anyone could ride him.

"All right. Here." He handed LeFou the curry brush, then stepped aside.

LeFou eagerly raised the curry and clumsily tried to brush the colt's cheek with it. Fantộme immediately reared back, whinnying shrilly, then galloped to the other side of the paddock.

"NO! Not like that!" Gaston snapped, striking the brush out of Lefou's hand. He was annoyed - this negative experience could set the sensitive colt's training back. He ran over to the colt, talking softly to him and soothing him down.

He came back, leading the now-calmed horse, and his eye fell on LeFou. For just a split-second, it crossed Gaston's mind to apologize. The kid had meant well, after all.

But LeFou spoke up first. He didn't sound angry, only resigned. "I'm sorry, I know I get things wrong a lot. I hope I didn't mess him up too much. Do you want me to go home?" He should have known he would screw things up, he thought sadly.

Gaston was surprised. "No, why would I? Just do it _right _this time. Like this: in a circular motion, not up and down. And _never _brush a horse's face with a curry brush – he's sensitive there. Just brush his back and sides."

LeFou brightened, thrilled to be given a second chance. He took the brush and carefully moved it in circles on the horse's side. "Like that?"

Gaston nodded. "That's better."

Beaming at even this meager praise, LeFou happily groomed the horse. He didn't blame Gaston at all for his bout of temper. Being so perfect himself, it was understandable that he would be impatient with LeFou's clumsiness. LeFou was just glad that Gaston put up with him and didn't feel the need to end the friendship over his mistake.

Although he couldn't articulate it, he was beginning to realize that unlike his father, whose underlying resentment of his son led him to berate him for hours over any mistake, Gaston's anger wasn't personal. Like everything else in his life, it was all about Gaston – his needs, his desires, his convenience. When something went wrong, Gaston's quick temper flared at the inconvenience - but then it was gone just as quickly, as though nothing had happened. So LeFou didn't take it personally.

Meanwhile, Gaston had already forgotten any thought of apology. LeFou clearly thought Gaston's anger was justified, so obviously he'd done nothing wrong. Besides, his father always said apologizing was a sign of weakness.

He strolled over to the porch and sat down, leaning back lazily against a post, watching LeFou groom his horse.

LeFou spoke up. "So, where have you been the last few days? No one's seen you around."

Gaston smiled, relishing the anticipation of bragging about his exploits. He enjoyed talking to LeFou; it was flattering to be around someone who idolized him so much. "I went hunting with my father. And…" He paused for dramatic effect. "I shot a deer, all by myself. It was about 90 yards away, so far even my father couldn't get it! But I lined up the shot, and got him, clean as a whistle."

"Wow!" LeFou was suitably impressed. "That's _great!" _

"Yep," agreed Gaston smugly. "Pop says he's never heard of anyone so young bagging a deer. He was 16 the first time _he_ got one. He's going to mount the trophy on the wall of the tavern."

He stood up and walked over to LeFou. "But that's not _all _I did," he said confidentially, a gleam in his eye.

"Tell me!" said LeFou eagerly. He loved hearing Gaston's stories.

"Well," said Gaston, "my father was _so _proud of me, he brought me to the tavern that night. I got to sit there with all the men, just like one of 'em, drinking ale and everything."

"Wow," LeFou whispered. "What was it like?"

"Oh, it was _great,"_ Gaston said. "I drank a whole lot of ale, and I got drunk – it felt like floating, kind of. And the men were all telling dirty jokes and stuff, and there was even a fistfight! And…" He leaned in closer. "You know Desiree? The barmaid?"

LeFou nodded. "I've seen her sometimes."

"Well," Gaston boasted, "she came right up to me, and said I was the best-looking guy she'd ever seen in her whole life! And she wanted to take me upstairs and…you know." He winked conspiratorially.

"No! Really?" LeFou was shocked. "Did you go?" He was fascinated. Gaston seemed to live in a completely different world from his.

"I _wanted _to," Gaston lied. "But my father wouldn't let me. He said I'm too young. Desiree was really disappointed – she was _begging_ him to let me go with her. But he said when I'm 13, I can. But I _did_ see her tits up close – her blouse was so low, they were practically falling out. And…" He thought quickly. "And I even _touched _them!" That wasn't true, of course, but it sounded good.

"Gosh," said LeFou, scarcely breathing. "That's incredible! What did they feel like?"

"Wonderful. Really soft," Gaston improvised. He looked at the horse. "Looks like you're done," he said, taking the brush back. He went to get the colt's saddle and bridle.

"I'm going to try riding him into the woods today – I've never ridden him outside the paddock before, but I think he's ready now," Gaston said. As an afterthought, he added, "Do you have a horse? You can come with me if you want."

"No, I don't have a horse," LeFou said quietly.

Gaston was putting the bridle on Fantộme. The colt still resisted the bit, but Gaston spoke gently to him and got it in place. "Oh," he replied, putting the saddle on the colt and cinching the girth. "You should ask your father to get you one."

"Yeah, I should," LeFou said non-committally, although the idea of asking his father for anything, let alone something as expensive as a horse, was laughable.

LeFou had never told Gaston about his home life, for three reasons. First, if the truth be told, he was ashamed of it. Gaston's parents loved him so much, and were so proud of him – how could LeFou admit that _his _father didn't even want him around? Secondly, being with Gaston was LeFou's escape. When he was with Gaston, he felt like part of Gaston's world, a glamorous and exciting place where anything could happen. When people praised Gaston and exclaimed over his accomplishments, LeFou felt proud of his idol, living vicariously through Gaston's exploits. So when he was with Gaston, the _last _thing he wanted was a reminder that this wasn't really _his _life, and that he actually belonged in the run-down cottage with a father who despised him.

The third reason he never told Gaston about his family was the simplest of all: Gaston never asked. Already self-centered, he was perfectly happy with a friendship that revolved entirely around himself. Since LeFou seemed content with it too, it never even occurred to Gaston to wonder what LeFou did when they weren't together.

Gaston mounted the skittish colt, which danced around for a few steps, but with his expert touch, Gaston calmed it. Obediently, the colt quieted and waited for his signal to move. "Well, I'll see you later," Gaston said.

"All right," said LeFou, slightly disappointed. Then he had a thought. "If I see the guys, can I tell them all about what you did? With the deer and the tavern and all?"

Gaston reflected. He knew that LeFou would build him up and make him sound as impressive as possible. Then, when Gaston himself showed up later, the boys would flock around him, asking if it were really true and clamoring to hear the story from his own lips. _Much _more satisfying than Gaston arriving and having to say, "Hey, guys, listen! Guess what happened to me?"

"Sure," he said, smiling at LeFou. "You tell them everything."

LeFou smiled back, liking the idea. "Okay! I'll see you later!" Gaston waved and guided the horse out of the paddock and toward the forest.

LeFou went looking for the other boys. He saw them climbing trees in the meadow. "Hi, LeFou!" Claude called to him. "Do you know where Gaston is? He hasn't been around the last few days."

LeFou puffed himself up, feeling important. "Yep. I just talked to him. There's a good reason why he wasn't around – he was doing something really exciting!"

The boys looked intrigued. They dropped down from the trees and came over to LeFou. "Tell us," Pierre said. "What's Gaston been up to?"

LeFou smiled and began to tell the story. All the boys' attention on him, listening to what he had to say.

It was almost as good as being Gaston.


	5. Gaston

It was a beautiful summer day. Gaston was 13 years old, and he was heading to the lake to go fishing. LeFou trailed behind him, loaded down with both their fishing tackle.

Gaston turned, seeing LeFou far behind. "Hurry up, will you?" he said impatiently. He was annoyed by LeFou's slowness. It never occurred to him that LeFou's much shorter legs and the weight of carrying all their gear might have something to do with it.

"Coming!" LeFou said, trying to hurry faster.

As they passed through the center of town, he heard a high-pitched voice. "Gaston!" He turned to see Bambi, one of the blonde triplets.

"Where are your sisters?" Gaston asked. It was unusual to see them apart.

She giggled. "They're coming. But I spotted you up ahead, and snuck away so I could talk to you alone for a minute."

"What about?" he asked.

She batted her eyes flirtatiously. "Well…you see the bakery over there? There's a bush growing behind it, and yesterday I saw that it had the most _beautiful _roses on it. I wanted to show you."

He grinned, showing his dazzling wide teeth, and she almost swooned right there. "Roses, huh? Okay, I've got a minute. LeFou, wait here."

Behind the bakery, out of sight of passersby, she kissed him. He kissed her back, enjoying the sweet taste of her. His hand wandered to her bosom. She let him grope her for a few seconds, then pulled back in mock outrage, not wanting to seem _too_ easy. "Why, Gaston! You naughty thing!"

He smiled. "Sorry, but when a girl is as beautiful as you, it's hard to keep my hands off."

"Well, I'll forgive you _this _time," she said, smiling.

"Bambi! Where are you?" voices called.

"Oh, darn, it's my sisters. I'd better go," she said in disappointment.

He let her go out first, then waited a minute or two before following, as though he had just happened to show up. The three sisters were clustered together in the town square. Seeing him, they rushed over.

"Hi, Gaston," said Bunny coquettishly. "You're looking _very _handsome today!"

"He looks handsome _every _day!" corrected Bubbles.

Their mother emerged from one of the shops. "Come on, girls, we have a lot of errands to do. Let's go." Seeing Gaston, she added with a smile, "Well, hello, young man. I hope my girls haven't been bothering you." She had high hopes that he would marry one of her daughters when the time came.

"Of course not, madame," Gaston said politely. "It's a pleasure to be in the company of such refined young ladies. And is that a new hat you're wearing? It's very becoming."

She blushed, pleased. "Why, yes, it is." _What a nice young man, _she thought. "Well, we'd better be running along. Come on, girls."

As they headed away, Bunny suddenly said, "Oh, I dropped my handkerchief! I'll catch up in a minute." She ran back to Gaston and whispered, "I'll try to sneak out later if I can. Maybe I can meet you in the alley behind the feed store."

"All right," he said, smiling. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek before rushing to catch up with her mother and sisters.

"Come on, LeFou," Gaston said. "Let's get to the lake."

It took longer than expected to get there – LeFou couldn't walk too fast with all the gear he was carrying, and Gaston kept getting stopped by various girls who wanted to flirt with him. But eventually they reached the lake, met their friends there, and settled down to go fishing.

The water sparkled in the sunlight, insects buzzed on the riverbank, and the fish were biting. Gaston felt relaxed and lazy as he sat in the warm sun, nearly dozing off as he held the pole.

So he was startled when LeFou suddenly spoke. "Hey, who's that?" All the boys looked up. An older boy was approaching them, one they'd never seen before. He was about 16, a burly, broad-shouldered boy with red hair.

"Hello," the older boy said. "I'm Francois. We just moved here yesterday."

The boys introduced themselves by name, one by one. But before Gaston could speak, LeFou piped up. "And that's Gaston! You've probably already heard of him. He's the strongest, toughest boy in town. He can do anything better than anyone else - fish, shoot, wrestle..."

Gaston smiled to himself as LeFou prattled on. One thing was certain: he never needed to brag when LeFou was around. The smaller boy did it for him.

Francois grinned. "Toughest boy in town, huh?" he said. "Think you can take me on?"

The other boys stirred with anticipation, pleased by the prospect of a fight. Gaston sized up the stranger. He was bigger than Gaston by far, but Gaston knew he was the best fighter in town, and he was confident. "Sure, if you want," he said carelessly.

He stood up and faced Francois. The other boys circled around, cheering Gaston on.

Francois made a meaty fist, and threw a punch that connected with Gaston's chin with all the force of a sledgehammer. Stunned, Gaston reeled back. Francois pressed his advantage with another punch that threw Gaston off balance. He fell to the ground, but before he could get up, Francois jumped on him, pinning him down. "Say uncle!" he demanded.

Gaston struggled, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't get up or throw off his opponent. He was strong enough to lift Francois if they had both been standing. But in this position - lying flat on his back with the bigger boy sitting on him and pinning him down with all his weight - Gaston had no leverage. He was trapped. But he kept struggling and squirming, unwilling to concede defeat.

Francois grinned, a nasty grin. "Suit yourself," he said, and started pounding the younger boy. Gaston felt blood pouring from his nose and bottom lip. Francois continued punching him, perfectly willing to keep at it all day if necessary until Gaston surrendered. "Say uncle!" he insisted.

"Uncle," Gaston finally whispered. Francois immediately jumped off him, triumphant. The other boys circled around Francois, congratulating him.

Gaston stood up shakily, in a state of utter shock. He couldn't believe this had happened. He _never _lost. It was unthinkable. Distraught, he turned and started running toward home.

LeFou called after him, "Gaston, wait!" But Gaston didn't listen. His world was crashing down around him. All he wanted was to get home, where things made sense.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Mireille as he entered the house. "My poor boy! What happened?"

"I got in a fight," Gaston mumbled.

Auguste rose from his chair. His eyes swept over Gaston, taking in his bruised and disheveled state. Then he asked the question. The question Gaston had known was coming. The only question that mattered.

"Did you win?"

Gaston hesitated. "No," he admitted quietly. Auguste's brows drew together, his expression dark as a thundercloud. He strode over to the window and stood looking out in silence as Mireille rushed over with bandages and ointments and began ministering to her son.

"Oh, your beautiful face!" she sighed sadly, dabbing at his scrapes. "My poor handsome boy. I hope it won't leave scars. Does it hurt a lot?"

"No," Gaston said, his eyes on Auguste. He wished his father would say something. But Auguste didn't speak for a long time.

Finally he turned from the window. "Gaston, come with me. I want to talk to you."

Mireille put her hands on Gaston's shoulders protectively. "Auguste, the poor boy's hurt. Hasn't he been through enough today?"

Auguste looked exasperated. "I'm not going to hurt him. I just want to _talk_ to him. Do I need to ask your permission now?" he snapped. He looked at Gaston. "Are you coming? Or are you going to hide behind your mother all night?" Gaston rose immediately and followed him out the door. Mireille watched them go, wringing her hands nervously and trying to quell the sense of foreboding that rose within her.

Out on the porch, Auguste gestured for Gaston sit on the bench. Gaston sat, his head lowered, wondering what was coming.

But Auguste did not speak immediately. He stared at Gaston silently for what seemed like forever. Gaston wished his father had simply taken him to the woodshed - he had hardly ever been punished in his life, but a whipping would have been over and done with quickly. He could have handled that. The look in his father's eyes was much, much worse. It gave Gaston a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had never let his father down before, but he knew that this time he had, and clearly it was the worst thing he had ever done.

Finally his father spoke. "How did this happen?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Gaston burst out. "It was this new kid. He's _16, _Pop! And he's bigger and heavier than me!"

"That doesn't matter," Auguste said grimly. "What matters is that everyone saw you _lose._ Your reputation is in jeopardy. Damn it, Gaston! What do I always tell you? It's all about the _image!"_ He stood seething for a moment. "What's this boy's name?"

"Francois," Gaston said. "He's new."

"Francois," Auguste repeated. "The son of the new blacksmith." Auguste always knew everyone and everything that happened in town. "His father was in the tavern last night. He heard me bragging about you. I _always _brag about you, you know that. Toughest boy in town, I said." Auguste banged his fist on the railing in frustration. "What am I supposed to say to him when he comes in tonight, gloating about how his boy trounced mine on his very first day in the village?" He whirled to glare at Gaston. "What am I supposed to say to _all _of them? I've been talking you up since the day you were born! How can I face them? I'll be a laughingstock after this!"

"I-I'm sorry, Pop," Gaston said in a small voice. He tried to think of a way to make it better. "But Pop…Francois is the only one who ever beat me. I'm still stronger than any of the other boys," he pointed out.

Auguste stared at him in disbelief. "So _that's_ your goal in life now? To be _second _best? To let Francois be the leader from now on, while you follow him around, just one of the sheep, meekly doing whatever he says? Is that what you want?"

Gaston was horrified at the idea. _"No_, Pop!" It was true, then. His father had confirmed it. This was a catastrophe – the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

"No. _You're _the leader, Gaston. You've _always _been the leader, the best of the best, the one the other boys look up to and respect. And now this brazen little jackanapes comes into town and tries to take it all away from you! Are you going to let him get _away _with it?"

"I-I don't know," Gaston said honestly.

"Well, _I _know," said Auguste fiercely. "No son of mine is going to just roll over like a dog and give up!" He looked down at his son, his eyes boring into Gaston's. "You listen to me, Gaston. This is the most important thing I will ever teach you." His father's voice was more serious than Gaston had ever heard it. "Never let anyone take what's yours. _Never. _You let that happen, just _once,_ and it's all over. People will think that you're weak, that you can be pushed around, taken advantage of. They'll never respect you again." He slammed his fist into his palm. "That is _not _going to happen! Not to you, and not to me! We are _better _than that, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Pop," Gaston said hastily. He felt a cold shiver of fear down his spine. His father made it sound as though his whole future was at stake.

Auguste sighed. Calming himself, he sat down next to Gaston. "Listen to me, son," he said in a kinder voice. "You know I think the world of you, right? Haven't I always told you how proud I am of you?"

"Yes, Pop," Gaston said.

"I only want the best for you," Auguste went on. "Because you _deserve _the best. You're the finest boy in this village. Always have been, right from the start. But in this world, no one's just going to hand anything to you. You have to prove you're worthy of it – that you're _entitled _to it." He put his hand on Gaston's shoulder. "There comes a time in every man's life when he has to stand up and show what he's made of. This is your time, Gaston. You've been given a challenge. Meet it head on, and triumph over it. Make me proud. I know you can do it."

He stood up. "Tomorrow, you're going to find this Francois. You're going to fight him again, and you're going to win."

"But how?" Gaston asked. "He's bigger than me!"

Auguste shrugged. "So find another way. Fight dirty. Cheat if you have to. It doesn't matter. Just make sure you beat this boy, and that the other boys see you do it. Prove to them all that you're still the top dog, that you won't let _anyone _get the best of you."

Gaston's mind was racing. "All right," he said slowly. Then he looked up, worried. "But Pop…what if I _don't _win?"

"You will," Auguste said firmly. His meaning was clear: _You'd better. _There was simply no other option.

He patted Gaston's shoulder. "You can do it, Gaston. You're a winner - it's been obvious since you were born. I know you won't let me down."

Gaston looked at his father, determination in his eyes. "All right, Pop," he said resolutely. "I'll do it."

"That's my boy," Auguste said approvingly.

They went back into the house. Mireille came forward anxiously. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," Auguste said, sitting down in his armchair. "We just had a man-to-man talk. That's all."

Mireille touched Gaston's shoulder worriedly. "Gaston…?"

He shrugged off her touch. "Leave me alone, Ma." He wore a grim, determined expression she had never seen before. He had always been such a sunny, happy-go-lucky child. He headed to his room.

Mireille looked at her husband. "Are you sure he's all right?"

"Of course," Auguste replied. "He's just becoming a man. Had to happen sooner or later."

Gaston lay awake in bed for hours, reliving the fight and everything his father had said. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. His father was right. This was _Gaston's_ village. _He _was the leader, the one everyone admired. How _dare _that audacious little upstart come breezing into town and try to take over!

Francois had humiliated him. He thought he'd gotten away with it, that Gaston had run off with his tail between his legs. In fact, he was probably laughing at Gaston right now. Gaston's fists clenched in rage at the thought. Well, he wouldn't be laughing tomorrow. He'd had the element of surprise today; Gaston hadn't expected him to be so strong. But he knew better now, and he had all night to plan his attack. Francois wouldn't get the best of him ever again.

The next morning, Mireille heard a knock at the door. She opened it to see LeFou. "Good morning, LeFou. Do you want to come in and have some breakfast?"

"No, thank you, ma'am," LeFou said. "I just wanted to see how Gaston's doing. He was pretty upset yesterday."

"I know," said Mireille worriedly. She look at LeFou, grateful that someone shared her concern for her darling boy. "You're his friend - maybe you could talk to him?"

"I can try," LeFou said, glad to do anything that could help Gaston.

Mireille smiled. "He's lucky to have such a loyal friend."

"Thanks, ma'am," LeFou said, pleased. He followed her into the house. Gaston and his father were just coming down the stairs.

Auguste had his hand encouragingly on Gaston's shoulder. "Make me proud today, son. I'm counting on you."

"I will, Pop," Gaston replied.

"Gaston," Mireille called, "LeFou is here."

Gaston looked over at his sidekick. "Good. Let's go."

"Wait!" protested Mireille. "Don't you want some breakfast first?"

"No," Gaston said shortly, heading toward the door.

"But, Gaston," said Mireille. "You're growing boy. You can't go out on an empty stomach."

_"Stop nagging me!"_ Gaston burst out at her. He was already tense as a bowstring, preparing for what was to come. Her constant twittering set him on edge.

At his sharp words, Mireille stepped back with a gasp, looking as though he had slapped her.

Seeing her expression, Gaston felt a pang. But before he could say anything, his father spoke up. "Well, good for you!" he said, chuckling. "I was _wondering _when you were finally going to cut the apron strings. You show that much backbone with Francois, you'll do fine."

Gaston's expression hardened. "Yeah." He turned and went out the door, not looking back.

LeFou followed, looking worried. "Gaston? You okay?"

"Yes," Gaston said without looking at him.

"You know, Gaston, about yesterday…" LeFou began. "Francois is big, but he's clumsy too. He can't do all the things you can do. You're still the best at hunting, and shooting, and archery, and fishing—"

"I'm the best at _everything," _Gaston said firmly.

"Right!" said LeFou, encouraged. "And sure, Francois is bigger right now, but that's only because he's older. In a couple of years, you'll be as big as him, or even bigger, and _then _I'll bet you can beat him!"

"I'm not waiting that long. I'm going to beat him today," Gaston said. He strode through the town, his long legs moving him quickly. LeFou hurried to keep up.

"You are?" LeFou asked in confusion. "But Gaston – he's so much _bigger_ than you! You can't beat him now!"

Gaston stopped short, so suddenly that LeFou ran right into him. Gaston whirled and grabbed LeFou's shirt front, hauling him right off the ground and glaring into his eyes. In slow, threatening tones, he said, "Do not _ever _tell me that I can't do something."

"Okay! _Okay!"_ squeaked LeFou, frightened. "Take it easy!" Gaston dropped him, turned, and kept walking.

LeFou raced after him. "But _how_ can you beat him?"

"You'll see," was all Gaston said.

He found Francois in the meadow talking with some of the other boys. Gaston marched right up to him. "I want a rematch," he demanded.

The older boy looked surprised. Then he laughed. "A glutton for punishment, eh?" he chuckled. "Okay, if you insist. I don't mind thrashing you again, if that's what you want."

They faced each other. Francois' grin faded as he saw the look in Gaston's eyes - a fierce determination that hadn't been there yesterday. Francois threw a punch, but Gaston ducked under his arm and head-butted him in the stomach as hard as he could. Francois doubled over, and Gaston jabbed his eyes with his fingers, then kicked him in the groin. Francois crumpled to the ground like an empty sack.

Gaston knelt next to him and grabbed him in a chokehold that left him breathless. "Say uncle!" His icy blue eyes held not a trace of humanity or compassion, only a ruthless determination to win at all costs.

Francois managed to gasp, "Uncle," and Gaston released him. The older boy collapsed to the ground.

Gaston stood up and looked around. The other boys were staring at him in awe. He felt…magnificent. Powerful. Invincible, in fact. He could do _anything._

Why had he been so worried yesterday? How foolish he had been. He should have known he would win in the end. He _always _won in the end. And he always would.

Gaston was the best, and everyone knew it. No one would ever challenge or defy him again.

He looked at Francois on the ground. The boy was starting to recover and catch his breath. Gaston was about to gloat, to taunt him by saying, "Not so tough after all, are you?"

But he stopped himself. His father's words came into his mind: _"It's all about the image." _He wanted the boys to respect him, true. And they did. But he also wanted them to _like _him, and to admire him. That was important too. Taunting Francois would only earn him a lifelong enemy, and make himself look bad.

He had beaten Francois publicly. The older boy was no longer a threat to him. He could afford to be generous.

So he held out his hand and asked, "Are you all right?"

Francois looked up in surprise. "Yeah, I think so." He eyed Gaston's hand warily, then took it and allowed Gaston to help him up.

"You're a pretty good fighter," Gaston said. "Not as good as _me, _but then, who is?" He grinned.

Francois hesitated, then grinned back. "You _are _pretty tough!" he admitted. "Especially for a kid."

"It's no shame to be beaten by the best," Gaston said lightly. He looked up and squinted at the sun. "It's sure hot out. Want to go swimming at the lake?"

"Sure," said Francois.

Gaston turned to the others. "Come on, guys. Let's go swimming." They all agreed, and headed to the lake, Gaston in the lead. Just as it should be.

At sunset, the boys left the lake and returned to their respective homes. LeFou followed Gaston home to help share the news of Gaston's triumph with his parents. Gaston entered the house grandly, grinning from ear to ear, the conquering hero returned.

Auguste came forward. "Well?" he asked expectantly.

"Boy, you should have seen it!" LeFou said excitedly. "That guy didn't know what hit him! Gaston totally pummeled him into the ground! It was amazing!"

Auguste beamed. "That's my boy!" he cried, clapping him on the back. "I _knew_ you could do it! And to think you were going to just give up!"

Gaston grinned sheepishly. "You were right, Pop. You're always right."

Mireille smiled. "Congratulations, honey." She didn't really approve of fighting, but she was aware that it was, once again, a "man's thing." All she knew was that the day before, her beloved boy had been terribly upset and miserable, but now he was smiling and happy. That was good enough for her. She was just relieved the problem had been resolved. "Come, dinner's ready. Let's sit down. You can join us if you like, LeFou."

"Thanks!" said LeFou happily.

But during dinner, as Gaston recounted the fight to his father blow-by-blow, Mireille's smile faded. Something seemed different about him. She couldn't put her finger on it. She studied him as he told the story. He had always been confident and sure of himself, of course; had always loved to brag and be the center of attention. She had loved his self-confidence, knowing it would take him far in life. But now it seemed to be beyond confidence, beyond mere bragging…now he was cocky, almost to the point of arrogance.

And there was something else too. He was smiling and laughing as he told his father the story, back to his usual cheerful self…but there was something in his eyes. Something cold and hard and ruthless. She realized, with a shiver, that she wouldn't want to be the person who got between Gaston and something he wanted.

She shook herself. She was being silly, she told herself firmly. He couldn't have changed _that _much. And it was obvious that LeFou and Auguste didn't see any difference in him. They were both smiling too, enjoying her son's moment of triumph, just as _she_ should be enjoying it. He was still her Gaston, the darling child she had rocked to sleep as a baby, the sweet boy who used to bring her wildflowers he had picked in the meadow. She was just an overprotective mother, worrying too much and seeing things that weren't there.

Dinner finished, Auguste stood up. "Tonight is a night to celebrate!" he announced. "Come with me to the tavern, son. Francois' father certainly had a lot to say last night, I can tell you – let's see what he has to say for himself _now," _he said with a wink.

"Can I come too?" LeFou asked hopefully.

"Sure, I don't see why not," said Auguste. "Will your father mind?"

"No," said LeFou with certainty. "He won't care."

"All right then," said Auguste. "Let's go." Then he had a thought. "Gaston. I never did set you up with Desiree, did I?"

"No, Pop."

"Well, I think tonight would be the perfect night. What you did today deserves a reward. Sound good to you?"

"Sure, Pop," Gaston said confidently. "It sounds great." He felt none of the trepidation he had two years earlier, when the idea had first been broached. He knew he could handle it. He could handle _anything. _He was the best, after all.

He was Gaston.


	6. Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi

On a cool autumn evening, Gaston was at the tavern with his father and LeFou, the usual nightly routine. Gaston was 17 now, and the tavern was like a second home to him at this point. It was a slow night, until Francois came in. "Guess what?" he announced. "I saw a bear in the woods today. Too far away to get a shot, though."

The men were interested. The woods were full of deer and elk, and occasionally wolves. But no bears had been seen near Molyneaux in many years – they tended to stay much further north.

"A bear, huh?" said Auguste thoughtfully. "My father shot a bear once." He nodded at the lone bear head mounted on the wall. "I've always wanted to get one myself, but never had the opportunity." He looked at Gaston and LeFou. "What do you say, boys? Up for a hunting trip tomorrow?"

"Of course!" said Gaston, always up for a challenge.

LeFou looked nervous. Bears were dangerous. But LeFou always went where Gaston went – he wasn't going to back out now. And besides, Gaston and Auguste were the two greatest hunters in the world. There would be no real danger with them around, he assured himself.

They set out the next day, and pitched camp in the woods to spend the night. The following morning, they spent the day tracking until they found signs of the bear. LeFou wasn't skilled at tracking, but Auguste and Gaston were experts, so he just followed them, assuming they knew what they were doing.

They did. At midday, they came upon a clearing, and right in the center was the bear. It was grazing peacefully, fat and content, nibbling at berries from the bushes.

Auguste raised his gun. Hearing the click of the safety, the bear whirled and saw them. It reared up on two legs. Auguste aimed right at its heart, a perfect shot. But just as he fired, the bear dropped back down to all fours. The bullet merely nicked its back, a minor flesh wound. With a roar of pain and rage, the bear lunged at the hunter, its massive front paws slamming him to the ground, then slashed at his chest with its deadly claws and sharp fangs.

"POP!" Gaston yelled. He raised his own rifle and fired, hitting the bear in the side. The bear reared up with a roar, about to attack this new threat, then thought better of it and galloped off into the forest.

Anxiously, Gaston knelt by his father's side. Auguste's chest was bleeding profusely. It was clearly a mortal wound. Gaston started to scoop him up. "Come on, we've got to get you back to the village!"

"No!" Auguste gripped Gaston's arm with his waning strength. He was close to losing consciousness from loss of blood, but he fought to get the words out. "It's too late for that. There's only one thing you can do for me now." Gaston leaned closer to hear his father's dying words. Auguste's eyes were full of emotion: not fear at his impending death, nor love for the son he was leaving behind, but pure hatred and rage - rage at having been defeated, and by a mere beast at that. "Gaston," he said venomously. "You kill that son of a bitch for me. Get revenge." It was the last thing he said. His eyes closed, and he was gone.

Gaston stood absolutely still and silent, staring at his father's body. It seemed unthinkable. Auguste had loomed so large in his life, such a powerful and awe-inspiring presence, as indomitable as a mountain. How could he be gone? Without his forceful spirit, his body was a mere shell.

Unused to loss of any kind, Gaston was unprepared for the wave of sorrow that overcame him. He didn't know how to deal with it. He seized on his father's last words – "Get revenge." _That_ was something he could do. Action was easier for him than thought. His grief swiftly changed to anger, a familiar and therefore comforting emotion. His expression hardened. That bear had taken his father from him, but he wouldn't get away with it, Gaston vowed to himself. Gaston would destroy the creature and avenge his father's death.

He turned to LeFou, who was shaking and whimpering in fear and reaction from the unexpected tragedy. Gaston grabbed LeFou's shoulders and shook him roughly. "LeFou! Snap out of it!" Gaston said sharply. "I need you to bring my father's body back to the village."

"What?" LeFou looked up at him, dazed. "Gaston, I can't carry him, he's too heavy. I'm not even sure how to get back to the village from here."

Gaston shook his head in exasperation. "All right. Follow me." He lifted his father carefully and they walked the two miles back to the campsite where they had spent the night, and where the horses were still tied up. Gaston took down the tent and used the material to gently wrap his father's body as though in a sheet, then put the body on top of his father's horse and tied it on. He handed the horse's reins to LeFou and pointed. "There's the path that leads out of the woods. Go back to the village and tell my mother what happened."

"But aren't you coming?" LeFou asked in surprise.

Gaston shook his head. "I'm going to go kill that bear."

LeFou was horrified. "Gaston, no! That thing already killed your father, and now it's wounded – it'll be even _more_ dangerous. What if it kills you too?"

"It won't," Gaston said grimly. His steely eyes were cold and vengeful. LeFou knew there was no arguing with him.

He tried another tack. "Look, let's _both_ go back to the village and get a hunting party together to track down the bear," he suggested reasonably. "All the men will come. That bear is vicious, you can't face it alone."

"No," said Gaston firmly. "This is _my_ kill."

"Well, shouldn't you at least talk to your mother first?" LeFou pressed. "She should hear the news from you, not me. And she's going to need you – she'll be crushed when she finds out about your father."

"Getting revenge is more important," Gaston insisted. He put his hand on LeFou's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "LeFou, I _need _you to do this for me," he said seriously. "Go to the village and tell my mother. I'm counting on you."

LeFou stood a little straighter, honored by the responsibility. "All right," he said solemnly. "If that's what you want."

"Good." Gaston gripped his rifle. "Tell everyone I'll be back soon." He strode back into the forest.

LeFou made his way back to the village. Mireille came out on the porch. Seeing him alone, she knew immediately that something was wrong. "What's happened?" she asked fearfully.

LeFou hesitated, hating to tell her. "I'm sorry," he said sorrowfully. "Auguste is dead. The bear killed him."

Mireille sank to her knees, devastated. She looked up. "And Gaston?"

"He went after the bear," LeFou said. "I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen."

"No…" whispered Mireille, terrified. The bear had already killed her husband, a powerful hunter with decades of experience. What chance did her 17-year-old son have against it?

The news spread quickly. The undertaker took charge of Auguste's body. Crowds of villagers hovered around Mireille's home. The women offered her tea and sympathy, and joined her in praying for Gaston's safety.

The men stood around LeFou, asking him to re-tell the story of what had happened. "How big was the bear?" they asked.

"At least eight feet tall, and about a thousand pounds," LeFou said with a shudder. "It was totally vicious – slashed Auguste to ribbons like it was nothing." He had a scary thought. "What if Gaston doesn't kill it? It might find its way here to the village! It could come after the livestock…or after _us!"_

The men looked at each other uneasily. "If Gaston doesn't come back, we'll have to go after the bear ourselves," Francois said. But none of them were happy with the prospect. They were all hunters, but they were used to hunting deer, elk, geese, rabbits…prey that did not fight back. This bear was clearly a savage killer, and had been more than a match for the greatest hunter in the village. They had no wish to come face-to-face with such a ferocious beast.

The young girls clasped their hands together, thinking of Gaston, so tall and strong and handsome, going bravely into the woods alone to rid the village of the fierce monster that had killed his father, facing almost certain death, like a knight in shining armor on a heroic quest. It was all so unbelievably romantic. "If he comes back, I'll tell him how much I love him," they each thought. "Maybe he'll even marry me. Oh, let him come back safely!"

Meanwhile, in the woods, Gaston returned to the scene of his father's death and tracked the bear to its cave. Remaining outside, he peered in cautiously. The beast was crouched at the far end, its yellow eyes gleaming.

Gaston stared at the creature with hatred. _Never let anyone take what's yours. _This bear had robbed him of his father, but he would have his revenge. No beast could take someone away from Gaston and live.

Gaston started to lift his rifle, but then hesitated. A bullet could ricochet in the small space. Carefully, keeping his eyes on his quarry, he drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it on his bow, drew it back, and released it. The arrow lodged in the bear's shoulder. With a roar of pain, the bear rushed forward. Gaston, just outside the mouth of the cave, leaped to the side. As the bear lunged out of the cave, Gaston raised his rifle and blasted it in the side. It turned to attack him, and he shot it twice in the chest. With a final roar, the bear fell, twitched a few times, then finally lay dead.

Gaston stood over it, breathing heavily. He felt a cold, grim satisfaction at having gotten revenge and fulfilled his father's last wish. It was the only thing he could do for the man who had taught him so much and made him what he was. Vengeance made his grief a little easier to bear.

And he felt something else too, something hard to describe. He had always looked up to his father as the ultimate man, the most powerful and invincible of all. But his father had been defeated by the bear. Gaston hadn't. Gaston had fought the same monster, and he had emerged victorious. He had surpassed even his father. Gaston was the most powerful of all now.

He truly _was _the best, he realized - the greatest man alive, in every possible way.

He lifted the dead bear onto his shoulders and headed out of the forest and back to the village. Lost in thought, he was startled by the huge cheer that rose up at his approach. The entire town was there, celebrating his return. "Gaston saved the village!" they cried.

Gaston was momentarily confused. He had killed the bear solely out of rage and a thirst for revenge. The village had nothing to do with it.

But gradually he understood. The villagers thought he had acted heroically and selflessly to protect them from the dangerous creature. Well, Gaston wasn't going to deny it. It certainly sounded good. _It's all about the image, _he thought.

And anyway, now that he thought about it, it was true that the bear _might _have attacked the village. He really _was _a hero, he decided.

He grinned and held the bear aloft victoriously. The crowd cheered. "The village is safe now!" he proclaimed.

Mireille ran up to him and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Gaston," she murmured. "I was so afraid I'd lose you too."

"You shouldn't have worried," he assured her. "I'm the best, remember?"

Auguste's funeral was the largest and grandest in village memory. Everyone in town turned out to pay their respects. Man after man spoke glowingly of Auguste's sterling reputation and exemplary qualities: his philanthropy, his big-hearted generosity, his leadership abilities, his many contributions to the life of the village.

But the true tribute occurred that night in the tavern. Dozens of boisterous toasts were made to Auguste, and colorful stories and reminiscences filled the room – stories of his hunting prowess, his fighting skills, his ability to drink any man under the table, and some ribald and off-color anecdotes of his bachelor days. All agreed that his inimitable presence would be sorely missed.

But mixed in with that sentiment was a recurring theme: admiration for Gaston. How proud Auguste would have been of his son. How incredible it was that a mere boy of 17 had single-handedly taken down a ferocious, man-eating bear, the same bear that had vanquished the most powerful and experienced hunter in the village. Gaston was even more remarkable than his father, everyone agreed. No longer merely "Auguste's son," he had made his mark, built an impressive reputation in his own right. He had avenged his father's death and saved the village from a deadly menace. He was a true hero, the villagers said.

Thus was the mantle passed. Gaston took over the tavern and immediately made it his own. He had the bear made into a rug, ordered a special chair custom-made out of hides and fur from his kills, and commissioned a huge portrait of himself to hang above the hearth. Despite his youth, he had a commanding presence, and all the men deferred to him, just as they had to his father.

With her husband gone, Mireille became even more devoted to her son, focusing all her attention on keeping him comfortable. She cooked all his favorite meals, dusted his trophies daily, cleaned and polished his muddy boots when he came home from hunting. It never occurred to him to thank her - after all, she had been catering to his every whim his entire life, and he took it for granted. But she didn't mind. She knew he enjoyed his creature comforts, just as his father had, and it gave her pleasure to see him smacking his lips over a good meal, or looking so handsome in his freshly-pressed clothes and gleaming boots. That was all the reward she needed.

As time passed, people often asked Gaston when he was going to get married. He always gave a vague answer. He knew he would get married at some point, but he was in no great rush to settle down immediately. With his gorgeous looks, he had no shortage of female companionship, and he enjoyed it to the fullest. He came and went as he pleased, without having to answer to anyone. And no matter how late he returned home, his mother always had a hot meal waiting for him. He was content with the status quo.

So life settled into a routine, and three years passed uneventfully.

But soon after Gaston's 20th birthday, Mireille took ill with consumption. Always slim and frail, she wasted away over a matter of weeks.

Gaston hired the finest doctors, promising them unlimited gold if she recovered. _"Do_ something for her!" he demanded angrily.

"There's nothing we can do," they told him gently. "Just keep her comfortable. It's only a matter of time."

Gaston raged against them, and paced the room like a caged tiger. He hated feeling so helpless. At least when his father had died, Gaston had had a flesh-and-blood enemy to blame, something he could strike out against and destroy. But the killer stealing his mother's life by degrees was silent and invisible. Gaston wanted to fight for his mother's life, to attack the thing that was killing her, but there was nothing to fight. All he could do was stand by helplessly and watch her die.

Although he hadn't given much thought to his mother over the past few years, he had always assumed that she would always _be _there, hovering in the background. There was something comforting in her steady presence, her unconditional love and endless devotion to him. The realization that she would soon be gone, that the house would be empty, hit him much harder than he would have expected.

Mireille saw his sorrow and was moved by it. "Gaston," she said gently. "Just sit with me. That's the best thing you can do." So he sat with her for days, trying to cheer her up, telling her hunting stories and sharing village gossip and humorous anecdotes from the tavern.

Although she knew she was dying, Mireille enjoyed those last few weeks. She was strangely content and at peace. In the past few years, Gaston had been off leading his own life, hunting all day and going to the tavern at night. He had grown up and didn't seem to need her any more, except for doing housework.

So it meant the world to her to see him sitting by her bedside for days on end, clearly so concerned for her. He did still love her in his own way, she realized, and the knowledge warmed her heart.

In some ways she felt that this was for the best. If she had lived, she would have soon found herself abandoned, she knew. Gaston was a grown man – it was time for him to start his own family. She knew it was natural and right for him to do so, but still, she had dreaded the day that he would choose a bride, move out and leave her all alone. Her entire life had revolved around taking care of her husband and son. It was all she knew how to do. With both of them gone, her days would be empty, her life meaningless in her eyes. To end her life with her son at her bedside was better than to live for years and years alone and unneeded, she felt.

"Gaston," she told him, "It's all right. I've made my peace with this. But I'm worried about _you._ Who will take care of you when I'm gone?"

He had to laugh. Only his mother would worry that the strongest, toughest man in town needed someone to take care of him. "I'm fine, Ma."

She grasped his hand. "After I'm gone, promise me you'll pick a girl and settle down. A _wonderful _girl. The best girl you can find. Someone who will love you and take care of you."

"All right, Ma. Anything you say," he promised. "Just rest. You need your strength."

LeFou came to see her, bringing her flowers. She was grateful and thanked him. "LeFou," she told him, "please do me a favor – look out for Gaston after I'm gone."

He chuckled. "Gaston doesn't need anyone to look out for him. He does a good job of that himself."

She smiled. "Thank you for being such a good friend to him all these years. I feel better knowing he has someone he can always count on. He's very lucky to have you."

LeFou was moved. He wasn't used to being appreciated. "Thanks. I think Gaston was lucky to have you for a mother." He hesitated, then added shyly, "I wish you'd been mine."

She patted his hand. "Me too," she said. "And I think your own mother would have been very proud of you. I'm sorry she missed out on seeing you grow up."

"Thank you," he whispered. He left with tears in his eyes.

Mireille steadily grew weaker. The day came when she knew it was time. Gaston sat by her bedside, holding her hand, wishing he could do something, anything to help.

She looked up at her son. There was so much she wanted to say to him. She wanted to tell him not to be as hard and unyielding as his father, not to be so focused on winning that he lost sight of everything that truly mattered. She wanted to tell him to think of others, and that kindness did not equal weakness. She wanted to urge him to allow love and compassion into his heart.

But she didn't know how to begin. She felt things deeply, but wasn't good at putting her feelings into words.

She looked at Gaston, a grown man, his father's son in every way. "I love you, Gaston," was all she could say, her heart brimming.

He looked at her, this woman who had devoted her entire life to making him happy. "I love you too, Ma," he said, a lump in his throat. He kissed her forehead.

She smiled gratefully. He had not said those words to her in many years. And his father had never said them. She squeezed his hand, her eyes full of love for him.

Then she was gone. And he was alone.


	7. Epilogue: Belle

_Author's note: So, we come to the end. But first, that special guest appearance you've all been waiting for…_

In the days following his mother's death, Gaston found himself dreading the moment he came home at night. It took him by surprise. He had always taken his mother for granted. But now that she was gone, the house seemed to echo with silence. He wasn't used to being alone. All his life, he had come home to a hot meal and someone asking him how his day went. The place seemed lonely and empty without her.

As the weeks passed, he also realized ruefully that she had been right: he _did _need someone to take care of him. He had never learned how to cook, or clean, or wash and mend clothes. And he certainly had no desire to learn – that was women's work, he thought disdainfully.

Of course, there was no shortage of young women eager to help the poor, bereaved, devastatingly handsome and eligible young man. They showed up on his doorstep with covered casserole dishes and words of condolence, and left with bags of his clothes to wash, iron and mend. They cheerfully offered to clean his house for him, and stopped him on the street to ask sympathetically how he was feeling, and if he ever needed someone to talk to.

Although the girls sought to appear selfless and compassionate, there was of course nothing altruistic about this new spirit of volunteerism. An elderly, impoverished widow would not have found the same army of helpers at her door. To the young women of the village, every act of kindness was an audition for the role of a lifetime: that of Madame Gaston. And each was determined to nab that role for herself. Every homemade apple pie, every darned sock or laundered sheet carried an unspoken message: that its bearer would make the perfect wife for him, the one he should choose above all others.

Of course, Gaston knew full well that they all had marriage on their minds. And he agreed with the idea. These little favors were merely a stopgap measure, after all – he needed someone to deal with his domestic chores permanently. Besides, he was already 20 years old. It was high time he settled down and got married to a beautiful woman who would adore and worship him around the clock, dote on him in the manner he was accustomed to, take care of all the cooking, cleaning and sewing, share his bed enthusiastically (but be innocent and virginal when he married her), and of course, produce a large brood of strapping boys to carry on his name. Although he had been an only child himself, he loved the idea of being the patriarch of a large family. It was proof of his virility, as well as a source of pride and status to raise a fine family of strong sons, smaller versions of himself, who would grow up to be future leaders of the town.

The only question was: which girl should he pick to be his bride? He studied them all closely as he strolled through the village. He ruled out the triplets immediately, a fact that would have devastated them had they known. They were lovely, but unfortunately, they were _identical. _None was prettier than the others; therefore, none was the best. And make no mistake about it: he would have only the best. Besides, if he married one of the triplets, he would always know that two other men had wives just as beautiful as his. That was _not _acceptable. He needed a wife far superior to all others – one so exquisite that every man in the village would envy him.

But try as he might, he just couldn't decide. There was no shortage of pretty girls in town: Monique, Cecile, Esme, Danielle, Lisette, Simone…Any one of them would be thrilled to be his wife. But none of them was really _outstanding. _None was so much more comely than the others as to clearly be the best.

Then one day, as Gaston sat on his front porch cleaning his rifle, LeFou came running up to him. "Hey, did you hear the news? A new family moved into the village!"

Gaston was pleased at the thought of new people to admire him. Most of the villagers had lived in Molyneaux their entire lives; there hadn't been a new arrival since Francois and his family seven years earlier. "Who are they?"

"An old man and his daughter. The guy is an inventor. Seems like kind of a crackpot, to be honest," LeFou said. "But the daughter's really pretty. I saw her in the marketplace a minute ago."

A new, pretty girl in town? Gaston was intrigued. He popped into his house for a moment to check his reflection in the mirror. Perfect as always, he thought with satisfaction. Then he strode off in the direction of the marketplace, LeFou at his heels.

Gaston spotted the girl immediately, her blue dress standing out among the drab tan garments of the women around her. She turned, and he saw her face for the first time. The sight took his breath away. Perfect, delicate features framed by dark, flowing hair that reminded him of his mother's. She was absolutely gorgeous.

Gaston was delighted. _Finally_, a girl whose beauty was worthy of him.

He headed towards her. "Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said charmingly. "Are you new in town?"

She smiled warmly, glad to meet someone so friendly. "Yes, we just moved here today. I'm Belle. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed smugly.

A trace of uncertainty passed over her face, but she just said, "And, you are…?"

"All your dreams come true!" Gaston proclaimed. He flexed his muscles, letting her get an eyeful of his heart-stopping good looks and impressive physique. He knew exactly what she was thinking: that she had never seen anyone as handsome as Gaston in her entire life.

He beamed proudly at her. "I'll bet when you found out you were moving to this village, you never dreamed you'd meet someone like _me!"_

"No…I certainly didn't," she admitted. Her smile had faded – no doubt with the daunting realization that she couldn't possibly be good enough for someone as magnificent as himself, Gaston thought. How thrilled she would be to find out he _did _want her after all.

LeFou piped up. "His name is Gaston! He's the strongest man in the whole village, and the greatest hunter too! He can shoot _anything! _There's a whole wall of the tavern covered with his trophies – deer, elk, boar, wolves…_"_

"Really," said Belle politely. "That's…certainly a lot of dead animals."

"Oh, yes," bragged Gaston. "Why don't we take a walk over there, and I'll show them to you?"

"Well, actually, I was just on my way to the bookshop," Belle said.

Gaston frowned. "The _bookshop?_ Why?"

Belle looked puzzled. "Well…to get a book, of course."

Gaston wrinkled his nose in distaste. "You like to _read?"_

Belle's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! I _love _to read. All kinds of books: novels, plays, poetry, history, even fairy tales. I think books are wonderful – they take us out of our ordinary lives and show us possibilities we've never dreamed of." Her voice was more animated than it had been during the entire rest of the conversation.

A girl who spent her time _reading_ – how inappropriate, almost scandalous. But then, Gaston remembered, her father was an eccentric inventor. He must have raised her with all kinds of strange ideas. The poor misguided girl hadn't had anyone to teach her the right things and show her the appropriate way for a woman to act.

She was lucky she had met Gaston. Another man might have rejected her for such odd ways. But Gaston was generous enough to forgive her faults. And anyway, as his father had told him, when it came to women, bad habits could be changed and proper behavior learned. Once they were married, she would give up her books soon enough. He would see to that. And he would get one of the village women to teach her how to cook and sew, if she didn't know how already. It was a trivial matter, easily solved.

The most important thing was how she _looked. _And she looked wonderful – much more beautiful than any other girl in the village. He ran his eye over her figure. She was dressed modestly, but that was good – he didn't want a wife who flaunted herself all over town for every man to ogle. His wife's body would be for him alone to look at. And he could see it was a good one, even under the conservative attire. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to remove her blue dress, slowly, like unwrapping a present, to see what lay beneath.

Seeing the look in his eye, Belle looked slightly alarmed. The girl must be overwhelmed by her own desire for him, and struggling to keep control of herself, Gaston thought.

"Do you know how to cook?" Gaston asked, to gauge how much work would be involved in turning her into a proper wife.

"What? Oh. Yes, of course I do," Belle said, confused by the sudden change of subject. "I cook dinner for my father every night." A trace of sadness entered her voice as she went on, "It's just the two of us now. You see, my mother passed away, and—"

"That's too bad," Gaston interrupted, uninterested in the rest of the story. She knew how to cook. That was all he needed to know. "So, how about coming with me to see those trophies now?"

"Thank you, but I really should be going," Belle said quickly. "I promised my father I'd go to the bookshop for only a minute, and then hurry back to help him unpack." She started to walk away.

Gaston followed her and smoothly darted in front of her, blocking her way. "You know, Belle, for months now everyone has been wondering who I would pick to be my bride. Every girl in town has been praying and hoping that she'll be the lucky one. But until now, I've never found the right girl."

"What a shame," said Belle, backing away from him. "Well, I'm afraid I really do have to go now. But it was very nice talking to you. I hope you find the girl you're looking for." With that, she edged around him and hurried off toward the bookshop.

Gaston watched her go. "Oh, I _have,"_ he said to himself, grinning.

He knew she would be overjoyed when he proposed. Like all girls, she had spent her whole life longing for her wedding day. But she could never have imagined that she would be lucky enough to marry the most perfect man alive. It would be a dream come true for her.

Of course, she had only just moved here, and needed a little time to get settled in, he thought. He could wait. He'd give her a few months to get used to the town, and to get to know him, and then he'd pop the question. Within the year, he would be a married man.

Cheerfully, he headed for the tavern, LeFou following obediently at his side.


End file.
